


i beg of you, do not walk by

by witching



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Awkward Conversations, Complicated Relationships, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Hopeful Ending, Kissing, Light Angst, M/M, Multi, Post-The Unknowing (The Magnus Archives), Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26031316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witching/pseuds/witching
Summary: thwarting the unknowing goes off without a hitch and without any casualties. it's the coming home that brings up issues old and new. it's the continuing to live that makes the whole thing more difficult than it has any right to be.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 13
Kudos: 178





	i beg of you, do not walk by

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JellyDishes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JellyDishes/gifts).



_it is a serious thing_   
_just to be alive_   
_on this fresh morning_   
_in the broken world._   
_i beg of you,_   
_do not walk by_   
_without pausing_   
_to attend to this_   
_rather ridiculous performance._   
_it could mean something._   
_it could mean everything._

// mary oliver, 'invitation'

* * *

On the drive back to London, Basira voices a thought they've all been avoiding, brings it up apropos of nothing in that deadpan realist way she has. "So, what, are we supposed to just go home now? What do we do?"

"I... don't know?" Jon replies with a deep furrow between his brows. His voice is rough from disuse, emotion, exhaustion. "I had sort of assumed we'd be returning to the institute."

"Fat fucking chance," Tim scoffs almost before he's finished the sentence. "I would maybe go back there if the alternative is death, but it's a _strong_ maybe."

"Seconded," says Daisy.

The car falls silent for a long minute as they all consider their options, and eventually Tim pipes up with a deep sigh of mingled exhaustion and disgust. Jon and Basira turn to look at him, see him staring at his phone, frowning about something. He doesn't offer up any sort of explanation, so Basira presses him for it, too tired to worry about tact or privacy.

"You planning on sharing with the class?"

Tim scoffs again. "Martin's at his," he tells her, jerking his head in Jon's direction, sneering in a manner that perfectly showcases his brilliant teeth. Jon takes in the information with a dull and distant sort of surprise, more focused on watching Tim's face move as he speaks. "Apparently he was worried about the security at his flat, so he went to the safest place he could think of."

It occurs to Jon then that his own phone is still off; he's not really used to having people contacting him and expecting a response, and his mind is not currently in the right state to remember things like that. He digs it out of his bag and turns it on and waits as the missed notifications roll in. Sure enough, there's a series of text messages from Martin, ranging from desperately terrified to sheepishly apologetic, the upshot of which is that he is, in fact, at Jon's flat.

Jon finds that he's very glad for the open invitation he'd extended to Martin months ago, even as he cringes at the memory of his nervous stammering through an explanation - _It's not like that, I'm just saying, if you ever need anything, here's a spare key._ He shoots back a reply to assure Martin that it's fine, then gives Daisy his address so she can take them there.

It's not very far after that, and within twenty minutes the car is idling in front of Jon's building, and Jon is frozen in place, unable to make himself get out. He can't just go, can't just leave without any kind of closure. He can feel the mounting annoyance from the others at his indecision, and he breaks the silence just when he's sure one of them is about to snap at him.

"Come with me," he implores, looking up at Tim with wide eyes. It's sudden, unexpected, and Tim is halfway through taking a breath so he can snarl the most vehement denial he can muster when Jon adds in a pleading whisper, "He needs you."

And maybe Tim's a sucker, or just softer than he'd prefer to admit, because that's all it takes to convince him. Martin needs him, and Martin is upstairs in Jon's flat, so that's where Tim will go; everything else is superfluous, irrelevant. After unloading their things, saying a quick, emotionless goodbye to Basira and Daisy, and enduring the awkward silence of an excruciatingly slow lift ride, they find themselves both engulfed in a tight, warm embrace as soon as they step inside the flat.

Martin is breathing heavily, his whole body shaking, and it takes Jon a long time to realize that it's because he's crying. Jon can hear him crying, but he can't really process things as easy as a strict logical progression from sensory input to reasonable conclusions; the effects of the Unknowing are fading slowly, it seems. Most of Jon's thoughts are scattered and irrational at the moment, but they all center around a general theme, something like: _Martin warm Martin big Martin soft Martin safe_ -

And then there's suddenly a whole lot of _Martin mouth Martin lips Martin taste,_ and Jon has to catch up to what's happening before he can register the fact that Martin is actually kissing him. He's kissing back, thankfully, muscle memory and reflexive reaction taking over rather than letting him be lost and rigid and unresponsive. But by the time he gains his presence of mind, Martin is pulling away.

Jon lets out a little whine at the loss of contact, opens his eyes slowly to see Martin turning to face Tim and - kissing him, now? Jon doesn't know how he's meant to feel about this, but it's not nearly as upsetting as it probably should be, all things considered. He's more captivated than anything else, watching them kiss and thinking - _I didn't look like that. They look comfortable like this, even as desperate and exhausted and frenzied as they are, they make it look practiced and effortless._

"You've done this before," he murmurs, not really realizing he's speaking aloud.

Tim and Martin detach instantly from each other at the sound of his voice. Tim crosses his arms over his chest and glares at the floor. Martin jumps two feet back and covers his mouth with his hand, his eyes wide and his body frozen with abashed horror.

Surprisingly, Tim is the first to speak. "Yeah," he mumbles, his lips barely moving. "We've done it before, yeah. A lot."

"Tim," Martin hisses through his fingers, then drags them slowly down his burning cheeks to look up at Jon, absolutely mortified. "I'm sorry, Jon, I shouldn't - it's inappropriate, it's - shit, I'm sorry, really. It's just... I was so scared, you know? And seeing you both, I just wasn't thinking."

"Martin," Jon interjects, a tired smile pulling at the corners of his lips, his tone tinged with amused curiosity. "Are you apologizing for kissing me or for kissing him?"

"Er... both, I think?" Martin scratches his head absently, wrinkles his brow, frowns in confusion. "It's quite rude either way, isn't it?"

"It certainly didn't _feel_ rude when you kissed me," Jon states rather plainly. "It felt... very good."

Tim snorts in the background, some mix of derision and amusement in it. Jon turns to face him fully, fixes him with a soft glare. Tim rolls his eyes at him, but doesn't say anything.

Jon takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. "This is a fucking mess," he sighs. "I'm sorry."

"What are _you_ sorry for?" Martin asks incredulously.

There's another snort from Tim, louder and more conspicuous. "You want the list alphabetically or chronologically?" he asks drily.

"Shut up, Tim," Martin snaps, clearly rankled. "Come on, I've made tea, stop being a prick and come sit."

Then he turns on his heel and stalks off in the direction of the sitting room, leaving Jon and Tim gaping in his wake. They trade a look, bewildered and begrudging, and follow him after a pause. Martin has indeed made tea, set it out for them with milk and sugar and biscuits, an adorable little domestic picture that feels very out of place for the spot they're at in life. Jon laughs fondly under his breath, and he surreptitiously glances at Tim to catch him doing the same.

There's no question or hesitation in the way Martin pours their tea, prepares it for them - he knows better than anyone how they like it - and sets the cups down on the coffee table. There's no ambiguity as to what he expects from them, not with the placement of the cups and the fact that he takes a seat in the armchair and leaves the sofa for the two of them. They move slowly, reluctantly, but they fulfill their roles, sitting gingerly beside each other, Jon directing all his attention toward his cup of tea, Tim giving Martin a pointed glare and silently begging him to say something.

"This is," Martin begins, slow and careful, avoiding eye contact, "a fucking mess. As Jon said. There's a lot that needs saying, I think, especially between the two of you, but I - personally, I would rather not - get into all of that right now?"

"I do believe that makes three of us," Jon mutters sardonically, taking a short sip of his tea.

"Agreed," comes Tim's response, hardly more than a grunt.

"Right." Martin gives the two of them a small, nervous smile, his hands shaking hard enough that he has to set his tea down to avoid spilling it. "Good that we're all on the same page, then."

For a moment, it almost seems as if there's nothing else, just silence and awkwardness and tea. Jon and Tim watch Martin with close attention, waiting for a hint as to what they're supposed to do, now that they've all agreed not to talk about the things that very much need talking about. Tim is about ready to stand up and leave when Martin takes in a sharp breath and blows it out through his teeth.

He folds his hands in his lap, chews on his lip for a second before finally speaking again. "I just... I'm really glad you guys are okay," he says, his voice wavering and watery and breaking in the middle. "I need to tell you that. I need you to know that."

Tim swallows thickly around an unwelcome and unexpected lump of emotion in his throat, opens his mouth to say something, he doesn't know what. Luckily, he doesn't have to worry about it too much, because Martin doesn't seem keen on letting him get a word in edgewise.

"You don't have to say anything," he says quickly, putting his hands up as if in surrender. "It's just... you're so... you're both so important to me, and I don't - I don't want to get so caught up in everything else and all the - the baggage and everything that we forget to be thankful for this, because I - I really thought you might not come back, I did, and I don't know what I would have done if something had happened to you, to either of you."

There's another long, heavy period of quiet; Tim stares at his hands, ashamed, while Jon sips his tea and tries to come up with anything to say. Martin sniffles intermittently, shuffles his feet, presses his lips together in a tight line and pushes through a few shaky breaths.

Eventually, Jon heaves a deep sigh and looks up at him, licks his lips nervously before speaking. "That's all very - yes," he says with a nod, "and - and thank you. I'm quite thoroughly relieved at the way things have turned out, myself. I'm very... very glad you weren't... you know, hurt. Physically, that is."

"Yeah, mhm," Martin tells him appeasingly, shaking off the reminder of the less physical hurt he incurred in executing his plan. He doesn't want to talk about it now, or possibly ever, so he doesn't really care how unsubtle his segue is into another subject. "Can we have dinner together? Just the three of us, like we used to when we were working late?"

"I don't have anything in," Jon mentions in an absent tone.

"I don't mind ordering in if you don't," Martin replies with a shrug, looking to Tim for his opinion before stopping abruptly, his amiable expression crumbling into one shot through with shame. "I - God, I'm sorry Jon, I haven't even - I've just come into your home and I'm not - I'll leave if you want, I don't want to overstay my welcome, I don't want to impose. You probably want to be alone, fucking hell, I'm being such a -"

He cuts off when Jon stands suddenly, moves over to sit beside him on the arm of his chair, tucks two fingers under his chin. "I want you here," he murmurs fervently as he guides Martin to look up at him. "I want you here as long as you're willing to stay."

Frowning up at him with wide, pleading eyes, Martin protests, "But what about - I should have thought - you haven't, I don't know, showered or slept or anything, and you don't have time to waste on... on m-me."

From his seat a few feet away, Tim clears his throat, and both Jon and Martin turn to look at him. "On me, you mean," he says, monotonous and morose as his worst days. "I'm the third wheel here, aren't I? I'm the one imposing. Intruding. You'd rather be alone together, and that's fine."

"Shut the hell up," Jon snaps at him, then closes his eyes and takes a breath. "I just mean. Well, I mean - shut the hell up, is what I mean. You don't get to play self-pity man. You're Timothy Stoker, you know who you are, and you know _damn_ well that the only person who wants you to leave right now is you."

"Jon," Martin murmurs, low and soft and just this side of chiding. Trying to reel him in, to mediate, to keep the peace, as always. "We don't need to get into all of that, not now."

"It rather seems like it's something that Tim would like to get into," Jon says through gritted teeth, his eyes locked on Tim's face even as he ostensibly speaks to Martin alone. He takes a deep breath, pinches the bridge of his nose, lets Martin's hand on his shoulder ground him enough to continue without quite as much rancor in his voice. "I'm just saying - if you'd like to go, Tim, nobody's forcing you to be here. But it is my home, and I'm not asking you to leave, so if you're going to do it, it's your choice and yours alone. I'm not kicking you out. I want you here."

Tim tries to stifle the urge to roll his eyes, but it happens despite his efforts. "You don't," he states bitterly, with a distinct air of finality.

And Jon just can't stand that, because if there's one thing he's learned from all of the bullshit with the Institute and the Eye and everything, it's that no amount of magical eldritch power can help him navigate human relationships. There's so much he can do now, and so much he can know, but he's still sorely lacking in any kind of social prowess or emotional intelligence. The best he can do is to tell the truth and hope it's what Tim wants to hear.

"I do," he insists, not unkindly. "I invited you. I'm - I don't want - it's not my intention to put you in the position to have to say no, but I'm... saying yes. To whatever this is. I'm saying yes, I want to try, and yes, I want to keep you around, and yes, I want you to want to stay."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Tim snaps.

"It means I love you," is Jon's reply, blunt and quick. "And if you hate me, that's - that's - not fine, I mean, it would break my heart to lose you for good, but that's your prerogative. But you can't put that on me. You can't pretend that your hatred goes both ways, because it doesn't. I love you and I want you to stay. I'm asking you to stay."

Tim blinks at him several times, mouth hanging open like a fish, and Martin stirs in his seat. Jon turns to look and sees him staring much in the same manner as Tim, eyes glued to Jon's face and lips parted in surprise. Martin's face is considerably softer, though, full of warmth and fondness and something like relief, while Tim is trying to glare daggers through his skull.

It feels like years before Martin finally speaks up, nothing more than a barely audible "Please, Tim?" escaping his lips. And then Jon and Tim are both watching him, waiting for him to make the next move, and he can't, he doesn't know how to do this, he doesn't have the foggiest clue what's going on. All he can do is let out a frustrated whine and demand petulantly, "What do you want from me?"

At that, Jon slides off the arm of the chair, maneuvering himself into a more comfortable position half leaning against the sofa, giving him a better angle for the conversation. "I think... we're all very tired," he mutters, and pauses for a beat to see if Tim will try to contradict him or tell him off, but he doesn't. "We're all tired," Jon repeats, "and there's no way for us to even begin to work through this in the state we're in. So I think it probably isn't a bad idea to eat something, maybe take a shower, get some sleep, and then see where we stand."

Martin nods, reaching his hand out absently to grab Jon's. Jon takes it, keeping his gaze fixed on Tim, seeing the way his eyes go dark and steely as he watches them. Jon can't really blame him; he'd feel the same way if he saw Martin and Tim being affectionate like this. The difference is, of course, that Tim could choose to do something, to say something, and nobody would stop him. Jon's hand itches to touch him, to invite him into this moment and make him a part of what they have here, but Tim doesn't move a muscle except to clench his jaw, and Jon isn't about to push anything that he isn't ready for.

While Tim is watching them hold hands with something akin to murderous rage seething in his eyes, and Jon is watching him watch them with a mixture of bitter regret and wistful curiosity, Martin is using his free hand to whip out his phone and order food. He knows what they like, has spent enough late nights with them both together and separately that he could recite their Thai orders in his sleep. He sees what they're doing, of course he does, but he figures they can handle a few minutes of uncomfortably glaring at each other while he ensures that they have food for the night.

By the time he submits the order, Tim seems to have gotten over it for the time being, alternating between looking at his hands clasped in his lap and watching Martin with a longing in his eyes. Jon is rubbing his thumb up and down across the back of Martin's hand, squeezing his palm every few seconds for reassurance. Martin looks up at him with a sort of _What do we do now?_ look on his face, and Jon clears his throat, glances back and forth between Tim and Martin.

"Erm, do we - I mean, I know Tim and I at least need - we could use showers," he says lamely.

"Right," Martin nods, bites his lip. "I did, er... I took a shower this morning, so I don't need... yeah."

"D'you want to..." Jon lets his question fade into nothingness with a little nod in Tim's direction, and Tim makes a gruff, indignant noise in response, opens his mouth presumably to be argumentative again. "I just mean," Jon continues, cutting him off before he begins, "that you're a guest in my home, no matter how you feel about it, and I would like to offer you the opportunity to use the shower first, but I'm positive you'll take it the wrong way and assume I'm just trying to get rid of you, when the reality is that I'm afraid if I go first, you'll leave as soon as my back is turned."

There's a beat of silence before Tim snarks back, "Wow, you've really committed to this whole communication bit."

Jon rolls his eyes, bites down hard on his lower lip to stifle the snappish retort that threatens on the tip of his tongue. "It's not a _bit,"_ he mumbles when he can scale back the anger in his tone. "I'm aiming for honesty, because I give a shit. You should try it sometime. For Martin's sake, of course," he adds as a sardonic afterthought.

"Sure, fine, I'll take the shower first," Tim grunts under his breath as he rises from the sofa. He averts his gaze to hide from his own vulnerability and lowers his voice even further to add, "And you know, if we're doing the honesty thing, then I need to ask a favor, in good faith. Just - don't - don't talk about me while I'm gone. Please." He doesn't wait for a response before sweeping off to the bathroom.

"So..." Martin looks up at Jon slowly, a deep furrow between his brows. "There's other things we could talk about, yeah?"

"Yeah, tons of things," Jon replies quietly, staring at the place where their hands intertwine, and moves without thinking to level his face with Martin's. "There are many things we could... talk about."

"Yeah," echoes Martin, his voice vague and distant. His attention, drifting far from their conversation, is more focused on Jon's full lips just inches from his own, parted ever so slightly and pouting perfectly. He feels profoundly guilty about it, given the circumstances, but all he wants to do is - well, he doesn't have to think about it for very long before Jon is doing it for him, leaning in and kissing him deep and slow.

Martin opens up for him, licks past his lips with unmitigated fervor as he brings his hands to rest on Jon's waist. He tastes like cinnamon - the red hot flavor of the gum he chews religiously, that Martin happens to know he only picked up to mask the scent of his cigarettes, and eventually to use as a replacement for them. It's such a fundamental part of Jon's presence, that spice in the air, that it's an immediate comfort for Martin to taste it from Jon's mouth. A familiar thing that Martin can't help but want more of.

With his hand disentangled from Martin's, Jon curls it into a fist, flexes his fingers, and moves to cradle Martin's cheeks in his palms as he whines softly against his lips. It's easy to get lost in the moment, to get so caught up in tasting each other and feeling each other that Jon doesn't notice his legs cramping up after a few minutes and Martin doesn't get stuck in his own head overthinking the whole thing. That is, until Jon pulls away for half a second and Martin begins to think too hard about it and Jon can't help but let his knees buckle from the strain.

It's only Martin's hands on his waist that stop him from collapsing to the ground, really; after all he's been through the past few days, his body seems to have had enough. Martin holds him up and looks into his eyes, stalwartly avoids looking at his mouth, and takes a few deep breaths while Jon pants against his lips.

It takes everything in him to whisper, "We shouldn't," and the look on Jon's face almost makes him take it back on the spot, but he stands firm. "It's not fair - it's - you know. I mean, I'd like to, but - we shouldn't."

Jon chuckles fondly under his breath at Martin's valiant effort to abide by Tim's request, dancing around his name when they both know what Martin means is _It's not fair to Tim, we shouldn't do this to Tim._ Jon doesn't entirely disagree, but he's not thrilled about it, either. "Right," he murmurs, "you're right. It's just - I'd really like to."

"I know," Martin replies with a rueful sigh, a wistful glance in the direction of the bathroom. "Me too. Why don't we - instead of - doing that, we could. I don't know, talk about it?"

"Talk about how badly I want to kiss you?" Jon asks, arching an eyebrow incredulously.

"Yeah," says Martin, as if that's a perfectly normal topic of conversation. "Or - no, but talk about - you know, our... feelings."

"I feel like kissing you," Jon shoots back without a moment's hesitation. Seeing the chiding look in Martin's eyes, he smooths his expression into a more serious mask and continues, "I think I've fallen quite in love with you. I didn't know it for the longest time, but now here we are, and it's - it's how I feel. I love you and I want you, and that's - well. That's what I have to say about that."

Squeezing Jon's hip firmly and giving him a plaintive look, Martin pauses to blink back a surge of emotion before responding. "You can't even begin to understand how happy I am to hear that," he whispers, voice full of wonder and cracking down the middle, "and I - I feel the same, obviously. I just don't want to make this a, a hostile environment? You know?"

Jon smiles fondly and shakes his head. "I don't think we're the ones creating a hostile environment," he points out, but he pulls away and stands at a respectable distance nonetheless, understanding Martin's meaning well enough.

It's none too soon, either, because only a few seconds later, Tim walks back into the room, looking back and forth between them with narrowed eyes, as if he expects to find them doing something covert behind his back. Which, to be fair, they sort of were. When he doesn't immediately find anything to take issue with, he sits on the sofa again, perched on the edge of the seat like he's ready to make a run for it, and doesn't say a word.

Sensing the rising tension in the air, Jon takes the opportunity to excuse himself for his own shower, then, not willing to risk Tim's ire by sticking around any longer than he needs to. He mutters something like _Back in a bit_ and scurries off with only a short glance over his shoulder at Martin.

The very second that Jon is out of the room, Tim springs up out of his seat and takes one long step across the room to stand painfully close to Martin, his newly-clean body radiating warmth in a way that's almost magnetic. Martin leans in unthinkingly, breathing in the honey and almond scent of Jon's body wash on Tim's skin, and prepares himself internally for a tough conversation.

He wants to let Tim have the reins, to let him steer this situation in whatever direction will make him most comfortable, but he's nervous, anxious. It's not that he doesn't trust Tim - he does, deeply, with his life, with the world - but Martin doesn't like surprises. He doesn't like not knowing where things are going.

Which is why it's a bit of a relief when Tim opts to go down a very familiar route, leaning down over Martin in nearly the exact same position as Jon had been standing a few minutes ago, and for the same purpose. Tim kisses fierce and messy, like it might be the last kiss he ever gets - not just now, he's always kissed like this. Martin has always loved it.

Tim's tongue tracing a line behind his teeth pulls a desperate whine from the depths of Martin's chest, followed closely by Martin's fingers twisting into the fabric of Tim's shirt and pulling him down closer. He loses his balance slightly, has to catch himself with a steadying hand on Martin's shoulder, but neither of them is about to complain about that. His other hand quickly finds its way into Martin's hair, fingers tangling in the curls at the back of his head as a broad, warm palm wraps around to cup the side of his neck.

It gnaws at him, this repeated blunder, this feeling of infidelity or dishonesty or disloyalty brewing inside him, but Martin can't bring himself to stop it, not when Tim's lips are so soft and smooth and tender against his. Not when today is the first time they've been this close in months, with everything that's been happening. No, Martin's going to savor this while he has it.

The slide of Tim's tongue against his is easy and comforting, and Martin lets his eyes drift shut and leans into it as far as he can. In one fluid movement, Tim moves forward, planting his knees on either side of Martin's thighs and straddling his lap to kiss him deeper, with more fervor, without worrying about keeping his balance. His kiss is slower now, almost hesitant, and it's only a short few seconds later when he pulls away reluctantly, frowning at Martin with his lower lip jutting out in a small pout.

Martin opens his eyes after a time and furrows his brow, giving Tim a quizzical look. Tim licks his lips slowly, swallows hard before speaking, his voice low and rough. "You taste... you taste like. Mm," he finishes vaguely, unwilling to say what they both know: Martin tastes like cinnamon.

"I know," he mutters with a rueful shake of his head. "I'm sorry, I know."

"You couldn't hold back for ten fucking minutes?" Tim hisses under his breath, though he looks more mournful than angry.

"Hey, neither could you!" Martin shoots back easily, giving Tim's shoulder a weak shove. "You jumped on me!"

His frown and the wrinkle in his brow deepening, Tim cocks his head at a slight angle. "Well, yeah, but. S'different when I do it," he mumbles. "I just don't like him... honestly, I just don't like him. But I especially don't like him putting his hands on you."

Martin brings his hand up to cup Tim's face, rubbing his thumb along the sharp angle of his cheekbone. "I know," he repeats, sympathetic and apologetic and soft. He very deliberately chooses not to say anything about how he actually rather appreciates Jon's hands on him, or about how there were other parts involved beyond just hands, because those comments would be quite unwelcome. "It's just - you know how I feel, Tim. It's not fair for you to expect me to just - what, drop him? It's messy, it's going to keep being messy, and I'm sorry that I can't just - just do exactly what you want me to all the time, but that's life."

Tim bites his lip hard and nods his head, looking sad enough to make Martin's stomach hurt with guilt. "No, I know, I'm sorry," he mutters bitterly. "I'm usually very good at sharing, it's just - the way he treats you - I don't want you to get hurt."

"We're well past the point of preventing hurt," Martin objects, still riding the line of standing up for himself and his relationship with Jon without alienating Tim completely.

Halfway through a breath in preparation for a reply, Tim lets out a strangled sort of sigh, staring past Martin's shoulder with wide eyes. Martin turns to follow his gaze and sees Jon mussing his wet hair with a hand towel, dressed in shorts and an oversized tee that slips down to reveal his shoulder. He's staring back at them, his jaw hanging open as he comes to a full stop on the other side of the room and takes in the view.

Martin looks down at Tim sitting on his lap and he can't really blame Jon for being shocked at their compromising position. He nudges Tim's chest ever so gently to push him off his lap and Tim scrambles to stand up, not taking his eyes off of Jon the whole time.

Instead of saying anything about that, though, Jon takes a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut for a long second, furrows his brow like the only thing that's concerning him is the two of them looking at him. "What?" he asks, trying not to snap. "Something wrong?"

The sound of Jon's voice breaks Martin out of his daze, and he shakes his head vigorously. "Nothing," he stammers, nearly squeaks. "Nothing, just. You're... you."

"I am me," says Jon with a small nod of his head.

"I just mean you're," Martin pauses, swallows hard, and continues in a wisp of a voice, "very pretty."

Tim heaves a sigh at that, rolls his eyes and scoffs. His immediate reward is Martin hitting his thigh lightly, which brings an awkward chuckle out of Jon. Nobody knows what to say or what to do.

"I can - I don't know," Jon flounders to lighten the mood, "I could turn on some music?"

"No thanks, boss," Tim retorts immediately. "I've seen your album collection, and I think I'd rather stick needles in my ears."

Martin hisses and glares at him, but Jon laughs again, sounding a hint more comfortable. "That's fair," he mumbles under his breath, and then they're saved by the bell when Martin's phone rings to let him know that their food has arrived.

They sit down on the sofa together, Martin in the middle, and eat in near total silence. Jon and Tim, at least, haven't eaten in a long while, and it takes one forkful of spicy noodles for their minds and bodies to catch up to that fact, and then they're shoveling it in too fast to think about anything else. Martin eats slower, but he's trying to do it in contemplative silence rather than filling the air with his incessant worrying.

When he's had his fill, Jon stands and begins clearing away empty takeout boxes, placing the half-full ones in the refrigerator. By the time he's finished with his own place, Tim and Martin are finished as well, and he deals with their things unquestioningly, without a word.

It all takes only a few minutes, and then Jon returns and stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, shuffling his feet and wringing his hands. After a time, he takes a long, deep breath and speaks. "Erm, I. Don't want to be...selfish. or presumptuous. So I'm going to defer to Martin once again. What's our plan, exactly? For - t-tonight?"

"Jon," Martin begins with a hint of curious amusement, "are you asking if I want to stay the night?"

"I mean... if that were something _you_ wanted, then it would be a pertinent answer to my question, yes," Jon says, "but I don't mean - I'm not _asking._ I don't want to... you know."

"No, I'm not sure I do know," Martin tells him.

"It's just," Jon says rather flatly, his eyes darting toward Tim's face to catch his expression flickering with anger and confusion and hurt in succession. "I don't want to ask you to stay, because I know you don't want to be near me," he continues, speaking directly to Tim now, albeit rather reluctantly, "but I also don't think that you should be alone right now. And I also don't think that your flat is safe."

He pauses for a moment, entertaining the illusion of giving someone else a chance to speak, but quickly discards that in favor of taking another sharp, deep breath and continuing to babble. "I'm only saying that - if both of you stay, then we have to discuss sleeping arrangements," he mutters in a high, thin voice, wavering with nerves, "and I'm sure we could find a solution that pleases all of us, but I don't want to impose on you or ask you to put in that effort if it's not something you're ready to do."

Martin raises a hand to stall the flow of words pouring from Jon's mouth. "Slow down, Jon," he says in a soothing tone, "that was a lot."

"Yeah, it was," Tim pipes up, laughing under his breath.

"Jon, why don't you just tell us what you want," Martin suggests gently, waving Tim off, "and if it's not something we're okay with, we'll tell you."

Jon hesitates and gnaws on his lip, stays silent for long enough that Tim rolls his eyes and heaves another loud sigh. When Jon and Martin both turn to look at him he only mumbles, "Any day now."

"I want you both in my bed," Jon blurts out suddenly, then closes his eyes tight and cringes upon hearing the words aloud and seeing the looks on their faces. "No, I don't mean like that. It's just that the sofa is uncomfortable, and I don't want to exile Tim just because he doesn't like me. He still doesn't deserve to sleep alone."

He's rambling, he knows he is, and he can't make it stop, can't make himself shut up. He has so many thoughts and feelings and ideas swirling around inside him, battering the inside of his skull, and it's been building up for so long that now he simply has to let it all out. Jon knows, at least, that Martin wants to hear it, even if it's a lot very fast, he can trust that Martin will listen. He softens his face, gives Martin an open, imploring look.

"But I don't want to give you up either," he says with a hint of a whine in his voice, petulant and unabashed, "because I love you, and I was so scared to lose you, and I don't think I could possibly fall asleep without you near me so I know you're safe." Martin looks as if he wants to say something in response to that, but Jon is quite intent to keep going now that he's got the inertia. He's just getting to the really difficult part, anyway, so he leans into his momentum and keeps his eyes fixed on Martin rather than think too hard about Tim and his likely unfavorable imminent reaction.

"And I feel the same way about Tim, but I don't want to ask him for that, because he doesn't want that, and I know you _do_ want it, b-but," he falters slightly, his hands shaking, but presses on: "I also know that both of you want that with each other. And I'm not willing to sideline Tim, but I'm equally unwilling to let myself be sidelined, because I need you close and safe."

"Close and safe," Martin echoes softly, a small smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "I think we can work with that. I certainly would _like_ to be able to figure something out. Tim? How do you... feel about that?"

Tim thinks about it for a long time, staring at his hands, and finally looks up at Martin, bites his lower lip. "I don't suppose he can manage to do anything horrible in one night," he mutters with a nod toward Jon, "and it is a comfortable bed. Long as you're in the middle."

Martin sighs, his shoulders slumping in relief, and smiles at Tim, then at Jon. "Of course," he promises softly.

It's comfortable and warm, all tucked in together in Jon's bed, which has always been too big for his tiny frame. Jon sleeps on his stomach, his head on Martin's shoulder, one arm slung across Martin's chest in a secure hold; on the other side of him, Tim rests on his side, hugging Martin's arm close to him. Between them, Martin sleeps more peacefully than he has in a long time. They're staying together for now, and everything else can wait until tomorrow.


End file.
